My People Are Rising

by Aaron Dixon

  I called Mildred with some feeble reason as to why I could not keep our special rendezvous, and I told Aaron we were taking a trip to Texas. Pat’s four-year-old son, Patrick, also came with us. That night, as we drove away, headed toward Reno, I glimpsed the fading lights of Oakland. As the hills and glow of Oakland disappeared, I felt a burden lift. I was leaving my Black Panther memories behind. Oddly enough, I felt some degree of freedom. Being on the run can do that to you.

  Reno; Cheyenne, Wyoming; Denver, Colorado; and Albuquerque, New Mexico, all gave way to our party of runaway bandits and two kids. With Aaron Patrice and Patrick in tow, we attempted to enjoy the road trip as much as we could under the circumstances, staying in five-star hotels, swimming in the hotel pools. On the road, I started a regimen of pushups and situps, inspired by a Sports Illustrated article about a college football phenomenon, Herschel Walker. I also started taking pantothenic acid, a B vitamin I had read was good for reducing stress.

  Our ultimate destination was Jamaica, where we could not be extradited for crimes committed in the United States, but we were first headed for Texas. Houston was experiencing the biggest economic boom in its history, fueled by the growth in the oil industry. People were relocating there from all over the country as well as overseas. Every day, contractors were cutting down acres of trees to make room for new housing developments.

  We jumped in with the flow, renting a two-bedroom apartment in northwest Houston. Pat got a job in her undercover name, Amina Brown. I was using the name Calvin Worthington. Sadly and reluctantly, I realized that Aaron Patrice had to be sent back to Seattle. I could not ask him to live a life with his father on the run from the law. I started writing a short story about two runaway slaves heading West, a sort of parallel to what Pat and I were going through. I had not picked up a pen to write in a creative fashion for almost ten years. The story seemed to beckon me, as if a hidden voice from the past were calling out to my creative side. However, the story was cut short, as was our stay in Houston.

  We got word from Pat’s mother that the FBI knew our location. Panicking, we put our furniture in storage in Houston, and took off for Beaumont, Texas, in the southeast corner of the state, to spend a few days with Pat’s cousin, Evelyn. A petite, sweet Texan, seven months pregnant, Evelyn opened her home to us while we figured out our next move. The next day she took us on a tour of Beaumont. We tried to relax and get a feel for the town.

  As Evelyn drove us through the Beaumont housing projects in the rental car, the Beaumont police began to follow us. Until now, we had gotten nary a glance from the authorities. We did not look like Texans, and why we ended up driving through the projects I can’t recall. But it was enough to raise the suspicions of a small-time Southern cop.

  When the red lights started flashing and the short burst from the siren began screaming, we knew we were in trouble. My mind started to spin. Evelyn stopped the car, got out, and waved back to the police car. Pat and I got out with little Patrick, acting nonchalant, as if this were just a routine stop.

  Neighborhood residents were walking around, not paying us or the cops much attention, as Evelyn engaged in conversation with the officer. We knew that if the cops ran the license plate number they would discover the rental car and license plate did not match, and would eventually figure out that we were fugitives. Pat, I, and little Patrick began walking toward one of the buildings, talking to the residents, acting as normal as possible. Once we got to the building we ran inside, going down a long hallway to another door, exiting the building, continuing across the street and over an embankment until we came to a main road.

  We caught a cab back to Evelyn’s house, grabbed our belongings, and caught a cab to the train station. An hour later we were on a train to Chicago. We had barely escaped. Evelyn was our sacrificial lamb. We felt bad for putting her in this situation, but knew that if she were to be arrested, they would not hold her for too long.

  On the train we got a private compartment. Pat and I did not say much on our journey through the Deep South up to Chicago. I wondered what little Patrick was thinking and feeling throughout this ordeal. The stress on Pat and me had been ebbing and flowing, and was definitely at high tide during this time. In Chicago I would have the opportunity to see relatives I had not seen in many years, although this was not exactly the occasion I would have chosen. But we had mastered the art of making the best of it.

  We arrived in Chicago with our suitcases and caught a cab to my grandmother DeDe’s house. Despite its being an unannounced visit, she was happy to see us. My grandmother was as gracious as ever. She lived alone in the large house on 71st and Calumet, the house full of memories of Grandada. He had passed away in 1968 while I was in New York, preparing to go the UN with Eldridge and the others.

  There were so many childhood memories of Chicago in that house, memories of love and tradition, of childhood exploits and family unity. I thought about my father and his happy-go-lucky ways, always looking forward to the next adventure. My mother and her nurturing kindness. My brothers and my sister, and my cousins, Mark and Keith. How we used to run up and down these streets, dashing through the alleys in search of excitement, and forging alliances with the neighborhood kids. Those were sweet memories I had forgotten.

  For now, we tried to make of most of this trip. My cousin Mark took us around to the tourist sites as well as local favorites. I visited with aunts and uncles and other relatives, not giving a hint as to the troubles that had brought me to the Windy City. I was no longer the quiet, shy, considerate little boy I had been so long ago. I was now a man trying to find my footing on shifting ground.

  After several days, Pat connected with relatives in Louisiana and decided to go there for a while, taking young Patrick with her, with plans for us to meet up back in Houston. I spent time hanging with Mark, going on wild goose chases and odd adventures. Running low on cash, I began my hundred-dollars-a-day hustle, a con I had learned along the way. I would purchase a hundred-dollar traveler’s check, report it stolen, and in the meantime cash it with my phony ID. Then I’d get reimbursed for the “stolen” traveler’s check. This kept a little cash in my pocket.

  Ma, my grandmother on my mother’s side, took me to visit my grandfather Bop Bop, who had been stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease and was in a convalescent hospital on the outskirts of Chicago. I remember slowly walking into his room. I was not prepared for what I would see. There, in a low-lying bed, lay Roy Sledge, my grandfather, born in the same month as I was, and whom my grandmother and mother said I so strongly resembled. He could not speak or move a muscle. The degenerative disease had robbed him completely of his physical capabilities. When his gaze set upon his favorite grandson, the only thing he could do was release the tears from his brown eyes. I sat there, holding his hands, gently rubbing his forehead. Bop Bop had always dressed in a dapper suit and hat. He was a perfect gentleman and a man of few words, a man of respect and honor. He had taught us so many fundamental life skills—how to properly shine our shoes, how to be neat and clean and pick up after ourselves, how to be courteous.

  I loved this man as I loved Grandada. I knew that Bop Bop would soon be joining him and the rest of our ancestors. I kissed Bop Bop on the forehead before I left, knowing I would not see him again in this lifetime. It was a very sad moment, yet I could shed no tears; it would be a long time before a tear would fall again from my eyes. I sensed that somehow, as crazy as this journey was, Bop Bop had been waiting for me to come say goodbye. Only a few days after my visit, he succumbed to the destruction of the horrific disease.

  Ma was stoic, almost detached from the slow decline and death of her companion. She and Bop Bop were a contrast—he was the only one who could keep her judgmental ways at bay. He always did little special things for her. During his illness, she traveled the long distance by bus, standing at the bus stop in the freezing Chicago winter and then walking almost half a mile to the hospital to wash him and comfort him. When my mother found out the bus stop did not have a shel
ter or a bench, she called the Chicago Transit Authority to complain. Those trips took a terrible toll on Ma’s legs and made it difficult for her to get around in her later years. I had not seen Ma or communicated with her since 1968, when my arrest led to Seattle’s first large-scale rebellion and landed Elmer and me on the front page of the Chicago Sun-Times. At that point, she had disowned both of us. Even now, she was not particularly overjoyed to see me. I could only hope that our next meeting would be under better circumstances.

  A few days later I was on my way back to Houston. As the Amtrak train roared through the flat heartland of Nebraska, Oklahoma, and finally Texas, I pondered my next move. I had no idea how I was going to connect with Pat, who was also on her way to Houston. I had no money left nor any place to lay my weary head once I arrived. All I had at my disposal was a gold and opal ring that Pat had bought me, and, unfortunately, I lost it on the train. I also had one last valid credit card, which I used to check into the Marriott in downtown Houston. After my third day, the front desk informed me I had only one more night before my card reached its limit. I still had not been able to locate Pat. I had to do something. I needed one last stroke of luck. The next morning, I dressed up in a nice suit, combed my hair neatly, and left the hotel, hoping for something to happen.

  As I walked down the street, I saw a cute little sister with an Afro, bright eyes, and a curvy body. She smiled at me and I smiled back. I met her for lunch and she volunteered to pay. Her name was Sheila. I explained my situation, minus some details, and after her workday was over, she picked me up at the hotel and took me to stay at her place. After several enjoyable days with Sheila, I finally connected with Pat, but continued to see Sheila on the side.

  Pat, Patrick, and I got another apartment. Pat got a job and I began looking for one. I had heard that Dino was in Houston, working for his father’s excavation company. I drove out to the site where they were clearing land for the new developments. There was Dino, sitting on top of a backhoe, handling the heavy equipment like an old pro.

  “Baby boy, how ya doin’?” he asked with a smile.

  It was good to see Dino again, and see him working a legitimate job. He was, after all, no more a hustler than I was. He had gotten swept up in the California fast life just as I had. I am glad he was able to move on from California without any serious consequences. I said goodbye to Dino and continued on my journey.

  I answered an ad for a youth program coordinator. Two Black women had received a large government grant for their nonprofit and were setting up a youth services bureau. They were so impressed with me that they hired me to develop and run the entire youth program. Finally, I thought, maybe things are coming together for us. Maybe we would eventually be able to reach our ultimate destination of Jamaica.

  A girl Pat’s mother had fostered came out to stay with us while she tried to kick a heroin habit. I should have anticipated that an addict and fugitives would be an unwise combination. One of Pat’s cousins also moved in to help us pay the rent. At the time, all seemed well—we were like one big, happy family. Pat and I became known as “Bonnie and Clyde” to our associates. Pat and I began to feel at ease, which is always dangerous when you are on the run from the law.

  I woke up early one Friday morning, looking forward to starting my new job the following Monday. I was excited about what I might accomplish with my new position and that the two women had enough confidence in me to offer me this opportunity to help build their organization. From my work with the party’s Teen Program, I brought a lot of experience that could help these sisters get their program off the ground. Nevertheless, I was still cautious, given the circumstances under which I was living. Things could come crashing down at any time.

  I went out on the porch and picked up the morning paper. The sun was bright and the day felt as if it would be a good one. Pat, however, was not feeling well and had decided not to go into work that morning. The constant stress was beginning to take a toll on her body.

  I sat on the couch and opened the Houston Chronicle to read the news of the day. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. I got up and asked, “Who is it?”

  The response startled me. “Is Aaron Dixon there?” No one in Houston aside from Pat called me Aaron.

  I answered, “Aaron doesn’t live here.”

  Then came, “Federal marshals. Open up.”

  In confusion, I ran upstairs to the bedroom and quickly woke up Pat. I pulled on a pair of pants and looked out the bedroom window, thinking perhaps I could escape down the tree next to the window. But there were three men in suits looking up. Just then, the front door burst open and marshals ran in with their weapons drawn, yelling, “You are under arrest! Put your hands up!”

  It was over. There was no escaping now. Guns were put to my head as I was ordered to the ground and handcuffed. Pat was handcuffed as well. We were taken down to the police station and booked into custody.

  I was transferred to Houston’s Harris County Correctional Facility, where I was soon surrounded by Black and Latino inmates in a dark, dreary holding cell, and later moved to the southern tier, deep within the prison. The facility looked every bit like a dungeon. The food was atrocious. I found a worm in my beans, and was unable to stomach the green-and-yellow sausage. I ate very little during my stay.

  One lone good aspect was that the facility was largely operated by the inmates, a common practice among Southern prisons, which meant we rarely saw the guards. Fortunately, I had just missed the harvest of the cotton fields by the inmates. After a week in that dismal place, the federal marshals came to pick me up. I never thought I’d be glad to see the feds, but that day I was elated.

  Pat and I were reunited. Handcuffed and accompanied by the marshals, we boarded a plane back to the Bay Area. Pat and I said very little, just tried to comfort each other as much as possible. When the stewardess brought us dinner, we scarfed it down so quickly she brought over another plate.

  Finally, this journey was over. Our year-and-a-half crime spree had come to an end. Now we had to pay our debt to society and put our lives back together. One thing was certain. We were not criminals—that is to say, we did not have criminal minds. But we got caught up in the thrill of materialism and the disregard for the law, like so many others in the “new” America. I had always been an adventurous, rebellious type, and in my ten years as a revolutionary, I had become addicted to the adrenaline rush of danger, of barely escaping death. It had become a key part of my identity. I had been on the other side of the law for so long that it was difficult for me to reenter what seemed to me a boring way of life, without danger or excitement. It would be something I would struggle with for some time.

  I would eventually have to come to grips with my past, my anger, and my detachment. The end of the Black Panther Party had left a bitter taste in my mouth, as it had for many others. It would take at least a decade for the negative feelings to subside and the righteousness of what the party and its members stood for to resurface.

  Pat and I were sentenced to a year in prison and five years’ probation. She went to the Pleasanton Federal Correctional Institution and I ended up in Lompoc Federal Prison, along with John Dean, the former Nixon adviser involved in the Watergate scandal. When the dust had settled, Pat and I realized we had gone on the lam for nothing—although, over time, I began to wonder if perhaps it was not for nothing.

  Maybe this strange journey had hidden meaning and purpose for me. Maybe it served to remind me that we must always remember and honor our ancestors, the people and places we came from. Maybe that is part of what happened to Huey. He stopped remembering. He forgot the sacrifices of our ancestors and all the others who paved the way for the emergence of the Black Panther Party. He had forgotten, as many of us did, that we set out to create a more humane world, for not just Black people but for white, brown, yellow, and red people, for the dispossessed and oppressed wherever they reside. We were ready to give our lives, and even to take lives if necessary, to secure a brighter future for a
ll of humanity. We came up short. Yet the Black Panther Party’s legacy is eternal.

  It will live on, always, in the hearts and minds of those who stand for the truth, of those who stand for justice and are willing to do whatever is needed to create the world we all deserve to live in: a world free of poverty, hunger, greed, fear, and hate—a world full of love and abundance.

  I have no regrets about my ten years as a soldier in the Black Panther Party. In the end it is the memories that make life worth living, particularly the good memories. My memories of Huey P. Newton are of a young, rebellious, brave, captivating, eloquent genius who ignited a flame that will never die. My memories of the Black Panther Party are of men and women rising in unison to carry that flame, taking up a position of defiance, of sacrifice, and of undying love, infused with passion and determination to write a new, bold future for Black America. That eternal beacon will shine on, lighting the way for future generations and illuminating the past, helping us remember a time when the possibilities for humanity were endless.

  My People Are Rising is dedicated to the memory of my father and all the fallen comrades of the Black Panther Party.

  for a slave of natural death who dies

  can’t balance out to two dead flies

  —Alprentice “Bunchy” Carter, “Black Mother”

  Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of those individuals.

  Not Forgotten

  May our collective conscience free Mumia Abu-Jamal, Chip Fitzgerald, Leonard Peltier, and the many other US political prisoners, including: